Agatha's Heavy Loads
By Big Jim
What was fascinating me was the drool and ejaculate oozing from the right corner of Agatha's slack mouth as yet another guy mounted her high round haunches and poked his rigid rod into the depths of her gooey, sloppy sex. It was going on three hours that she had been pulling this train, and I'd swear she was catnapping between orgasms, only to rev up again in time with the deep strokes into her hot running snatch until she shrieked out her orgasm into the night. Agatha was becoming the sweetheart of the 1st Marine Division, platoon by platoon. Tonight it was some guys from a force recon outfit hammering her snatch into blissful oblivion. She had picked them up by flashing her bright red pussy hair at them.
Not until the third rampant cock slid into the well-juiced snatch of sweet, grunting Agatha did I realize fully how she had been angling for this massive overload of humping. My mind flashed on the demure way her eyes cast down when one of the Gyrenes in the club in Oceanside checked her out, a demure glance that shifted suddenly to hunger when her gaze reached the guy's package -- and she licked her lips. Hey, there he was slipping his hog down her gullet as she swallowed to milk the vein-gnarled root of rigid flesh. One of his buddies had slipped his meat into her runny cunny. He was the guy she had rubbed her hard nubby nipples against three or four times on her way to the ladies room. Behind him, slapping the back of the guy jumping her well-padded bones, was his squadmate. The second Gyrene had been the first Marine in the bar to notice that Agatha was not wearing panties.
He had been as subtle as you might expect. He slipped his hand under her denim skirt, whistled, and said something slick, but not as slick as her pussy. That was why Agatha didn't wear panties -- she juiced almost all the time, and without ventilation, she could get a yeast infection in three hours.
All this debauchery had begun some weeks back, when I noticed how Agatha's rosebud lips pursed when I poured the pork to her. Man, the way she sang when she was getting it made you feel like some testosterone-besotted rampant stud. You would rise up some more and give her an angle that slipped down from the bottom of her cunny as she presented her ass doggie-style, to the front of the top of her vagina. This gave her front vaginal wall, above her clitoris and inside, more friction. She would whimper and buck and moan and come like a house afire. She was the first Anglo wench I ever rogered in my life, and I gotta say she was worth the wait.
And the weight. For some reason, as I shed the sixty extra pounds I had picked up in grad school, I picked up on Agatha, who was a very healthy girl. She admitted to 5-9, but she was at least 5-11. I knew better than to quiz her about her weight, but her butt was high and round and her legs were big. She looked like a punk version of R. Crumb's Suzy Creamcheese, with shorter hair that she dyed a flame red. It shook and danced like the burning bush itself when she shimmied and gyrated in time to the tune I played.
Oh, yeah, about Agatha's lips pursing: Watching them pucker and relax fascinated me, because she looked like she was sucking a phantom dick. I said, "I know what you need, a dick in your mouth." Her reply made me come like a firehose: "If it was a nice one."
The next three weekends we went looking for nice ones. She finally found some she liked in that bar in Oceanside, with dollar longnecks and a righteous jukebox. We danced a couple Motown numbers and some lance corporal cut in on the third: "Heard it Through the Grapevine." Within five minutes, we were riding in his van conversion while Agatha knelt in the back, sucking the first of ever-so-many jarhead cocks. I will never forget the moonlight slanting in through the van's windows and glistening off the loads of ejacualte dripping from her chin onto her pink-nippled C-cups. There was a woman built to submit to cock in all its manifold, spurting forms.
At the end of that first party night, while Agatha was splayed across a captain's chair in the van as man scum dripped from her face, tits and pussy, I pulled her legs up and apart, across the chair's arms. Rubbing my cock in the pool of come in her snatch, I slipped my unit up Agatha's ass, which had the interesting effect of making her jump and buck while she whimpered, "Are you done?" We answered that question in the affirmative after the squad followed my lead and sodomized her one by one.
Agatha was asking for more before the end of the next week, and her come-soaked cycle of sluttiness continued.
Viewed: 4425 Times!
By Big Jim
What was fascinating me was the drool and ejaculate oozing from the right corner of Agatha's slack mouth as yet another guy mounted her high round haunches and poked his rigid rod into the depths of her gooey, sloppy sex. It was going on three hours that she had been pulling this train, and I'd swear she was catnapping between orgasms, only to rev up again in time with the deep strokes into her hot running snatch until she shrieked out her orgasm into the night. Agatha was becoming the sweetheart of the 1st Marine Division, platoon by platoon. Tonight it was some guys from a force recon outfit hammering her snatch into blissful oblivion. She had picked them up by flashing her bright red pussy hair at them.
Not until the third rampant cock slid into the well-juiced snatch of sweet, grunting Agatha did I realize fully how she had been angling for this massive overload of humping. My mind flashed on the demure way her eyes cast down when one of the Gyrenes in the club in Oceanside checked her out, a demure glance that shifted suddenly to hunger when her gaze reached the guy's package -- and she licked her lips. Hey, there he was slipping his hog down her gullet as she swallowed to milk the vein-gnarled root of rigid flesh. One of his buddies had slipped his meat into her runny cunny. He was the guy she had rubbed her hard nubby nipples against three or four times on her way to the ladies room. Behind him, slapping the back of the guy jumping her well-padded bones, was his squadmate. The second Gyrene had been the first Marine in the bar to notice that Agatha was not wearing panties.
He had been as subtle as you might expect. He slipped his hand under her denim skirt, whistled, and said something slick, but not as slick as her pussy. That was why Agatha didn't wear panties -- she juiced almost all the time, and without ventilation, she could get a yeast infection in three hours.
All this debauchery had begun some weeks back, when I noticed how Agatha's rosebud lips pursed when I poured the pork to her. Man, the way she sang when she was getting it made you feel like some testosterone-besotted rampant stud. You would rise up some more and give her an angle that slipped down from the bottom of her cunny as she presented her ass doggie-style, to the front of the top of her vagina. This gave her front vaginal wall, above her clitoris and inside, more friction. She would whimper and buck and moan and come like a house afire. She was the first Anglo wench I ever rogered in my life, and I gotta say she was worth the wait.
And the weight. For some reason, as I shed the sixty extra pounds I had picked up in grad school, I picked up on Agatha, who was a very healthy girl. She admitted to 5-9, but she was at least 5-11. I knew better than to quiz her about her weight, but her butt was high and round and her legs were big. She looked like a punk version of R. Crumb's Suzy Creamcheese, with shorter hair that she dyed a flame red. It shook and danced like the burning bush itself when she shimmied and gyrated in time to the tune I played.
Oh, yeah, about Agatha's lips pursing: Watching them pucker and relax fascinated me, because she looked like she was sucking a phantom dick. I said, "I know what you need, a dick in your mouth." Her reply made me come like a firehose: "If it was a nice one."
The next three weekends we went looking for nice ones. She finally found some she liked in that bar in Oceanside, with dollar longnecks and a righteous jukebox. We danced a couple Motown numbers and some lance corporal cut in on the third: "Heard it Through the Grapevine." Within five minutes, we were riding in his van conversion while Agatha knelt in the back, sucking the first of ever-so-many jarhead cocks. I will never forget the moonlight slanting in through the van's windows and glistening off the loads of ejacualte dripping from her chin onto her pink-nippled C-cups. There was a woman built to submit to cock in all its manifold, spurting forms.
At the end of that first party night, while Agatha was splayed across a captain's chair in the van as man scum dripped from her face, tits and pussy, I pulled her legs up and apart, across the chair's arms. Rubbing my cock in the pool of come in her snatch, I slipped my unit up Agatha's ass, which had the interesting effect of making her jump and buck while she whimpered, "Are you done?" We answered that question in the affirmative after the squad followed my lead and sodomized her one by one.
Agatha was asking for more before the end of the next week, and her come-soaked cycle of sluttiness continued.
Viewed: 4425 Times!
